And I found Home in the most curious of Places
by Sijglind
Summary: Gabriel likes the sound of Sam. [Sabriel, companion piece to other fics.]


**AN:** This is a companion piece to my other two Sabriel stories "And when Death came unto Him, He smiled" and "Taste of Ashes". It's not necessary to have read those two to understand this one, but I would recommend it, since it would be easier to understand how it comes Gabriel is back and all.

* * *

Gabriel likes the sound of Sam.

To him, it's the sound of life. He spends hours in the bed beside him, listening to even breathing and quiet sighs, watching the broad chest rise and fall with every in- and exhale. He listens to Sam's laughter, often a small chuckle or snort, sometimes a loud guffaw, head thrown back, the column of his throat bare, Adam's apple bobbing, and Gabriel has to hold himself back to not pounce and press kisses to the skin there, nip it, suck it, mark it.

Sam's groans and choked gasps when Gabriel touches him, the obscenities he cries into the room when he comes, the begging for _more, harder, please, more_, is the sweetest music to the archangel's ears, far more beautiful than everything Heaven's harps could produce.

And then there's the way he says the angel's name. It's different every time—annoyed and reproachful, yet with a small amount of amusement when he switches the filling of Dean's pies for vegetables; sleepy and rough in the morning; a fond sigh when Gabriel combs his fingers through the long strands of brown hair; breathless in the darkness of the bedroom when pleasure crashes in waves over their naked and sweaty bodies; exasperated but loving when he steals the books and tries to distract Sam from his research with kisses.

(Nobody has ever said his name quite like Sam.)

He takes his time exploring the body laid out beneath him, over and over, every night like it's the first time.

Fingertips trail softly along the outlines of muscle and bone, varying between pressing down or caressing, coaxing little moans and gasps. Every noise is an encouragement, a plea he follows with enthusiasm.

The skin is tanned and taut, stretching over firm muscles, not a trace of fat, because between wrestling with monsters and traveling over the whole country for the next job, there's no time for gaining weight. There are scars, of course, and each carries a memory—a vengeful spirit here, the claws of a werewolf there. Sam retells all of them, some with amusement, others with sadness. The latter, Gabriel kisses away until the dimpled smile reappears or the story trails off into whimpers of pleasure.

There are no scars from sport accidents or dares gone wrong, no mementos of a normal childhood, no falling from trees and breaking an arm in the process, no scraped knees from playing soccer on the streets, no cuts from chain-link fences when he climbed over them to go skinny dipping in the town's outdoor pool at night.

"In a family that hunts monsters for a living, I was the freak because I wanted to go to school," Sam says wistfully one night and Gabriel brushes the frown off his face with the help of his lips.

(But he understands.)

Sam goes on a hunt and Gabriel goes to Europe.

Paris' skyline is illuminated by night, and the wind on top of the Eiffel Tower is harsh, tugs on his clothes as if it wants to drag him over the railing and down the nine-hundred feet between the platform and the ground. Not that Gabriel would ever touch the ground, but the wind doesn't know that.

The City of Love, they call it. He has seen its beginnings with his own eyes, knew it when it wasn't more than a cluster of small houses, witnessed the people arrive and the houses grow, even helped building the famous landmark of iron. To him, the memory is as fresh as if it was yesterday, but years, centuries have gone by for everybody else. It's fascinating what humans do with their short lives—monuments outlive their creators, tales tell of heroes long after their remains aren't more than dust.

He has seen empires rise and fall, has dined with Queen Elisabeth I and seduced Nefertiti. Both are long gone now, as so many others. In the end, Gabriel is still here. He'll always be. Eventually, he will watch the sun swallow this little planet and the rest of the solar system like a hungry maw of fire.

The question is just, what has he done?

It's embarrassing, really, how much a single human can achieve in their ridiculously short lifetime. Gabriel and his siblings do less, and they have far more time at their hands. They talk about a greater purpose, Father's plans, the Apocalypse. They feel superior, but in the end they are just mindless drones, helpless without orders and a firm hand that guides them on the right path, shows them the way.

Sure, religious books tell of him, Gabriel the Messenger of God, who came to Mary and told her of the child in her womb. Big plans for that child, woman. Sweet, little Mary, so full of fear, tears in her wide eyes and hands clenching in the robes over her belly.

"My husband," she said. "He won't understand."

"He'll have to."

He left after the deed was done. Father had already been gone by then, but Gabriel had still followed that last order of his, because even if he's the prodigal son, the urge to follow was too strong. He doesn't know what happened to Mary after he closed the door of her hut, worn wood barely silencing her sobs. The bible doesn't talk much of the mother.

Gabriel isn't superior to humans. His strength and powers are nothing compared to their willingness to forgive, their determination. Their love.

He chuckles, because he's having an existential crisis on top of the Eiffel Tower. He wonders what Michael or Lucifer would say if they could see him right now. Nothing good, that's for sure.

(They got what they deserved. Yet, the thought still hurts.)

He's drinking hot chocolate with extra cream. It's late evening, and the scene looks like that famous painting of the Dutch artist with the missing ear, a chain of colorful light bulbs illuminating the cafe's terrace, the rain-wet cobblestones reflecting the yellow, red and green lights. The people around him are engaged in silent conversation, different languages and voices drifting to his ears. A man laughs, loud and carefree.

Gabriel misses Sam.

He wonders where the human is right now, if he's fighting or tangled in the cheap sheets of a dingy motel room, Dean on the other bed. The image makes him smile.

Castiel appears with a rustle of feathers in the chair opposite of him, and the concern of his face tells Gabriel everything he needs to know.

He reaches out to his brother and takes his hand, smile slipping from his lips as his heart drops.

(Gabriel never prays, but in the fraction of a second it takes them to travel to the other end of the planet, the archangel hopes his father can hear him wherever He is.)

The werewolves snarl when the angels appear out of thin air, the wiser ones backing off, the young and foolish lounging forward. Gabriel catches a woman by her throat and brakes her neck with a satisfying snap, the high-pitched yelp of pain cut off by death. Tonight, the horseman's minions will have a lot of passengers to purgatory.

The sound of a gun being shot is muffled by the forest's underbrush, and a silver bullet cuts through the air, nicking one of the beasts in the shoulder. Dean is crouched over his brother's bloody form, clothes stained with mud and dark red.

Gabriel doesn't hesitate and passes the distance between them in wide strides, palms of his hands glowing white hot, and he doesn't speak when he falls to his knees at Sam's side, doesn't react when one of the bold creatures tries to pounce for his throat. He doesn't notice his little brother grabbing the man by the shoulder and swirling him around to press a hand to his forehead, blinding white light erupting from the werewolf's eyes and mouth as the angel smites him.

He can only see Sam, curled in on himself on the ground, breathing labored and short, clothes blood soaked and torn where claws carved deep lines into his skin. Dean screams something, but Gabriel doesn't listen, because there's a numbness spreading through him, cutting him off from his surroundings. The cries of pain fall on deaf ears, words loose their meaning, the hand closing around his shoulder isn't felt.

Sam is about to go somewhere Gabriel can't follow. He's on his way to a place the archangel has sworn to never go again.

His fingers tremble when he reaches out to brush them over the wounds, broken bones and parted skin knitting beneath the angel's touch, sewn together with threads of stardust and celestial intent. The breathing evens out, color returning to pale and bloodless cheeks, and the numbness recedes, melts into relief.

And then into anger.

When he straightens again, he is not the prodigal son that ran away from his family and home because he couldn't bear watching it falling apart. He's not the pagan god he made himself to be, not the trickster called Loki who serves Just Desserts to oblivious victims. He is not the Messenger of God.

He is Gabriel, Archangel of Judgment, and his wrath is righteous.

(Castiel's eyes widen when his brother stalks past him, and he grabs the Winchesters and brings them home before they can be caught in the crossfire of Heaven's most powerful weapon.)

Werewolves are nothing compared to Nephilim. Gabriel has fought wars against far greater and stronger beings, has lead armies into battle, but never has he felt such satisfaction when he takes lives. Sure, he has punished millions of people, has watched with glee when they found their early end, but this, _this _is a whole new level of gratifying. It feels right.

Bones snap and flesh tears beneath his hands, screams echo through the forest, filling it with dread and fear, chasing resting animals through the underbrush and flocks of birds into the air. He could take the shortcut and smite the whole werewolf pack at once, but they don't deserve that. Smiting is painful, but quick, and no, Gabriel wants to take his time.

The scum gets what it deserves, and then some.

(His hands and clothes are bloody when he returns to the bat cave, and Dean stares at him as if he crawled right out of the man's most terrifying nightmare. He's glad Sam can't see him like this.)

Sam passed out in a forest somewhere in the States and wakes up in a hotel room in Disneyland Paris.

(Dean erupts in a stream of curses when he finds the damn archangel's note on the table, but he's willing to let it go when he sees the case of German beer and deliciously smelling, still warm pie next to it. Just this once.)

"Gabe?" Sam blinks his eyes open, sleep and exhaustion still clinging to them, making the lids heavy and uncooperative. When hazel finally focuses on him, Gabriel smiles, but it feels all wrong. There's still fear inside him, its sharp edges digging painfully into his insides, because he nearly lost Sam tonight. If Cas hadn't got him in time, if he hadn't found him...

He shudders, presses his eyes closed and wills the images invading his mind away. Sam is safe. He is alive, a hot presence against his vessel, warm and sleep-stale breath brushing against his cheeks.

"Gabe?" Sam asks again, urgent, in a way that says, _are you alright_?

And no, he isn't, because he'd let himself forget. He lost himself in Sam's warmth and body and mind, in his love, and forgot that he is a fragile human being, a mortal, that inevitably, Sam's time on this planet comes to an end, every day passing bringing him closer to the edge and to a place Gabriel isn't willing to go back to. Not yet, maybe not ever.

The clock is ticking, and its arms are moving towards pain and separation. Tick, tick, tick.

A sob escapes the angel's throat, a raw sound of grief, and Sam rolls onto his side, strong arms pulling the small vessel closer and against his chest as if he can push Gabriel inside himself and keep him safe there, take away whatever is causing the pain. Gabriel wishes he could, and his own hands clench into Sam's shirt at his back, tugging at it. Normally, he doesn't allow himself to cry.

But Sam isn't normal. Sam is special. Sam is _his._

(And he is Sam's.)

It takes him some time to calm down, but Sam doesn't push, doesn't ask what upset a being as powerful as Gabriel that much. He loves him all the more for it, slowly relaxing under the big and strong hands stroking his back, alternating between soothing circles and soft caresses up and down. Chapped and dry lips press sweet kisses into the crown of dark blond hair, and finally, Gabriel tilts his head back, captures those lips with his own. It's chaste at first, soft and almost innocent, gentle.

But then Gabriel wants more.

He pushes forward, hands coming up and cupping Sam's cheeks, fingertips digging into the skin behind his ears, deepening the kiss. He's hungry, so hungry for touch and taste and smell and sound, his tongue slipping between Sam's lips when the man gasps. Gentle falls by the wayside, but Sam doesn't seem to mind, responds in kind, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

Gabriel doesn't close his eyes completely, doesn't want to let Sam out of his sight for fear he's going to lose him, this time forever. It's irrational, he knows, but that's love for you. Suddenly, he has the urge to tell Sam what he feels, needs him to know, although he thinks the human already does, but he _needs_ to say it out loud, as if by doing so, it's written in stone, carved into the fabric of reality.

The three words are whispered against Sam's lips, softly and full of a cocktail of feelings—love, need, longing, desire, fear. Sam shudders and closes his eyes, nods as answer. He already knew, but Gabriel needed to confirm it. It feels so good he does it again. And again. And again. Over and over the words are whispered, and Gabriel rolls on top of Sam, speaks them directly into his ear, into his neck, his chest, breathes them against a nipple, the firm stomach while his fingers hook under the elastic waistband of Sam's underwear, pushing the dark boxer briefs down.

He needs to... _needs to_.

"Please—Sam, let me—"

Sam nods, bites his lips, pupils dilated, swallowing the swirl of color that are his irises, turning his beautiful eyes into dark pools of desire Gabriel wants to drown in. He discards his own clothes swiftly, nearly getting himself stuck in his teeshirt in his rush, but then they're both naked and everything apart from Sam slips from his mind, gets lost in the wave of desire and want and need that crashes over him, taking all coherent thought with it.

A snap of his fingers and there's a bottle of lube in his hands. He fumbles with the cap, and it feels like eternity until he's finally managed to slick his fingers up and push them into Sam. It's hot and impossibly tight, and Gabriel groans at the thought of burying himself inside completely, feel the muscles clench around him.

They haven't done this before, because he loves seeing Sam losing himself in Gabriel, loves to feel him push inside, loves to be taken by the man he gave his heart to, but now, now he needs to claim. He needs to take. He needs to grip Sam tight and never let go while he thrusts inside him and makes the human his.

The time it takes to prepare Sam is torture, but he wants to make this good, reigns the flame inside him in until he feels like he's about to burst, because he doesn't want to hurt his human, and by the time he finally withdraws his fingers, Sam is a writhing, panting mess, fingers clutching the sheets so hard it looks like he's going to tear them.

"Gabe, _please_."

That's all it takes and Gabriel's self-restraint goes flying out of the window with a last salute to his mind, and the next thing he knows is he's pushing inside Sam, long legs hooked over his shoulders, and it's incredible, wonderful, perfect, bliss.

He's sinking, drowning, dying _La petite mort _in the City of Love.

Sam makes a choked noise that turns into a long groan, back arching and toes curling, eyes pressed closed and mouth slack, and Gabriel has to lean in, has to taste, to smell, to hear, his mind circling through a litany of _more, more, more_ and _Sam, Sam, Sam_.

(_Mine, mine, mine_.)

He loses track of time, but it doesn't matter, because they could be spending years in bed together and it would never feel like it's long enough.

(Sam cries his name when he comes, and Gabriel never wants to let him go again.)

Gabriel drags Sam through Disneyland, makes him go on all the attractions and pose with every last princess for photos. Sam's cheeks are bright red and he shuffles awkwardly on his feet when he stands next to Snow White, the girl in the costume giggling and shooting him adoring glances while the giant man tries to make himself as small as possible. To make it up to him, Gabriel buys as many sweets as he can carry at once. Of course, the archangel ends up eating most of them, but Sam is alright with it when he gets a sugary sweet and sticky kiss.

Other visitors stop and look at the odd couple, some in disbelief, others with an amused smile, and at first Sam squirms beneath all the attention they get, but Gabriel's good mood is infectious, and after a few hours, the younger Winchester doesn't mind anymore, smiles and waves at the curious children instead when they stare at them. At one point, a girl dressed in Cinderella's blue dress walks over to Sam and tugs at his jeans to get his attention. Sam crouches down in front of her and asks what's up. She's maybe five years old, with a wild cloud of brown curls which she twirls between her fingers nervously, and Sam, thinking he'd scared her, looks at the angel for help.

Gabriel, who thinks it's hilarious that Sam Winchester, monster-hunter and the person who ended the Apocalypse, looks so helpless when faced with a five-year-old, but he comes to his aid by crouching down next to him and tilting his head, asking the girl something in French.

She turns her big, brown eyes on the angel and asks a question herself, and Sam is left watching the two talking, not understanding a single word. The girl asks something, and Gabriel's eyes widen before he looks at Sam, then throws his head back and laughs before smiling at her and answering whatever she wanted to know. Sam's eyes narrow, but Gabriel only shrugs with a smirk and a wink, and then gets up again to scoop the girl up into his arms and scanning the crowd of people around them for something.

"Did she get lost?" Sam wants to know, and Gabriel nods as response before walking off, Sam trailing behind until they spot a couple with a buggy talking insistently to one of the park staff. The girl cries out for her mother and starts waving at her from where she's balanced on Gabriel's hip, the flustered woman answering with a cry of herself and running over to them. Both Sam and Gabriel get showered with kisses on their cheeks from the relieved mother while she mutters, "merci, merci, merci," like it's a prayer, clutching her child to her chest until the girl begins to squirm and asks to be let down. Gabriel can't help but chuckle as he watches an embarrassed blush bloom on Sam's cheeks.

They finally manage to separate from the reunited family by reassuring that it was alright, they didn't mind helping, and no, they don't need to be invited for dinner, thank you, and the girl, Amélie, says good bye with a kiss to their cheeks, waving at them over her mother's shoulder as Gabriel and Sam stand and watch them walk off.

"So, what'd she say?" Sam finally asks when the family rounds a corner, walking out of sight, and the familiar smirk slips back onto the archangel's face.

"Oh, nothing special."

Squaring his shoulders, Sam crowds closer and into Gabriel's personal space, eyes narrowed. "Oh, really?"

Gabriel only tips his head back and smiles up at him, grin broad and toothy, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, she got lost, and came over to ask if you could bring her back to her parents. You being a prince and all."

He winks and watches as Sam's lips form a surprised and small _oh_, and then settle for a warm smile, dimples digging deep into his cheeks.

"And what did you answer?"

"That she's lucky, because you aren't only the most gorgeous, but also the smartest and most courageous of the princes. The one who saved an angel from death."

Sam snakes an arm around Gabriel's waist and pulls him closer, not giving a damn about the people around them, leaning in and brushing his nose along a slightly stubbled cheek until he can whisper into the angel's ear, lips softly skimming the shell of Gabriel's ear. "When I'm the prince, does that make you my princess?"

Gabriel's answer is a breathless chuckle, his own hands coming up and clutching the back of Sam's shirt as he turns his head to bring their lips together.

(Gabriel tastes of cotton candy and Sam tastes of coffee.)

Gabriel takes Sam up on the Eiffel Tower at night. They don't speak, only look at the glimmering city spread out beneath them, streets lit with orange glow, criss-crossing through the blogs of houses like the veins that keep Paris alive.

(The wind is cold and sharp so high up, but Sam doesn't care, just buries his face in Gabriel's hair and tightens his arms around the angel's waist, inhales deeply the scent of honey and sunshine.)

Dean glares when Gabriel brings his little brother back to the bat cave, but the archangel makes it up by showing him the pictures of Sam and the princesses, much to the younger Winchester's distress when Dean cracks up and nearly falls off his chair, tears in his eyes and chest heaving with laughter.

(To Sam, Gabriel makes it up in the bedroom later.)

"Come back home, brother," Castiel says, blue eyes insistent and pleading. "We need you."

Gabriel shakes his head, heart sinking. He can't go to Heaven. It's not his home anymore, hasn't been for a long time, but Cas doesn't understand. Doesn't want to.

"You are the last of the Archangel's left. We need you," he says again, taking a step closer.

"You don't need me, Cas. You've been doing fine without me." Gabriel drags a hand through his hair and looks away, at the two Winchesters sitting at the table, their eyes on the angels, watching the scene playing out in front of them without comment. Sam's face is carefully guarded, betraying nothing of what is going on in his head and what he thinks about Cas's demands. Gabriel wishes he would help.

"There is a reason Father brought you back, Gabriel. He could have brought back Michael, or Raphael, or even Lucifer, but he chose it to be you, brother."

Gabriel laughs, bitter and dry. "Yeah, because I'm the lesser evil compared to those dickheads." He shakes his head, lips pressing into a thin, pale line, and looks at his younger brother, sees the desperation in his eyes.

"I am no leader, Castiel." His voice is soft when he speaks, his anger fading away, because he needs Castiel to understand. "I ran away, remember? I hid from our family until you thought I was dead. What good would I do back in Heaven? Nobody would listen to me anyway, and I can't even blame them for it."

The room feels too small all of a sudden, Castiel's presence too big and pressing, and Gabriel takes a step back.

"Brother—" Castiel never finishes what he wants to say, because Gabriel is gone.

(There's sand between his toes and the waves licking at his feet before they withdraw again. He wishes Sam was here.)

Sam opens the door to his bedroom to find Gabriel on his bed, elbows propped up on his crossed legs, face hidden in his hands.

"Hey," Sam says softly and walks over to him carefully. Gabriel doesn't look up, barely moves when Sam sits down next to him and wraps his arms around the narrow shoulders, pulling the archangel into his lap and nuzzling his neck.

They sit like that for a while, Sam stroking up and down Gabriel's arms in a soothing rhythm, whispering sweet reassurances into his ear.

"I can't go back to Heaven," the angel finally says, voice feeble and broken.

"Why?" Sam asks and stops stroking, winds his arms around Gabriel's middle instead and just holds him.

"It's not home anymore."

(You're my home now, Sam.)

Gabriel loves the sound of Sam. The way he says the angel's name. The noises he makes when Gabriel kisses down his neck, when he trails the scars on tanned skin.

He loves the smell of Sam. Musk, sweat, cheap deodorant and cologne, a tiny trace of sulfur, the Impala's leather seats, sometimes the blood of one monster or another.

He loves the sight of Sam. Clothed or naked, miles and miles of that body, long limbs, dimpled smile, shaggy brown hair and hazel eyes. He looks like he was chiseled by Michelangelo himself.

He loves the feel of Sam. That taut skin stretching over all those muscles, the puckered scar tissue, the scratch of stubble, warm breath brushing against his cheek, lips pressing to his own, hot, wet tongue, Sam thrusting inside him, filling him, all around him.

(I love you, Sam.)


End file.
